


Much Madness is Divinest Sense

by yellowwarbler



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s02e11-12 A Better World, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24709051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowwarbler/pseuds/yellowwarbler
Summary: Six months after President Luthor's death, Lord Batman finds a way to bring Wally back from the dead.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Wally West
Comments: 11
Kudos: 134





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Justice Lords are so fascinating. Especially fascinating is how Lord Batman fixated on Wally after his death. There's a lot of roads that could have taken, each of them pretty dang awful, and it occured to me one day that rather than looking for some other universe's Wally, Lord Batman might decide he needed to get his own back.

"There will be a price." Etrigan's smile stretched his face, rows of sharp teeth flashing at Bruce.

"There always is. Name yours."

"Oh no," Etrigan laughed, a wholly unpleasant sound. "I'll name it when I need it." He kept laughing. 

The fireplace crackled. Etrigan waved a hand, and the dying flames rekindled. Bruce felt sweat beading at his hairline, running down the back of his neck. It was July. It was ninety two degrees outside. He forced himself not to make a snide comment about homesickness. "When can it be done?"

"That depends on you. I'll need blood. A _lot_ of blood. Probably four pints. And it'll need to be from the same person, the anchor."

"Two weeks," Bruce decided. He'd have to go radio silent with the Lords. He'd need to change his diet, take scheduled amounts spaced out over time. If he did it right, he wouldn't weaken himself. He needed to be in top condition for this.

"If you say so." Etrigan raised a hand, and a book flew off a nearby shelf, the spine slapping into his palm. He put it on the table and searched through the pages. "It will need to happen where you plan to contain him. He'll have to stay close to the anchor for, oh, several full moons. Let's call it three. I'll send you a list of the conditions he'll need to follow."

"If they aren't followed?"

Etrigan closed the book. "Then he'll be called back. And _not_ to where he was before."

Something twisted in Bruce's chest, a flicker of doubt. But he quashed it ruthlessly. _Do what needs to be done_. "Understood. Send me the details. I'll send you the location. We begin in two weeks." He stood.

Etrigan held out a hand. When Bruce took it, something burned on his palm, pain flaring and settling. He snatched his hand back and stared at the skin. Nothing. The demon laughed again, nothing of Jason Blood in the sound.

"A deal is a deal, Bruce Wayne," he said. "I look forward to working with you."

Bruce turned and left. There was work to be done.

++++++++

Bruce monitored the news for changes, the blood bag strapped to his chair. Two days in and he had the first pint. His diet was exclusively iron-rich foods. When this was over, he’d be just as happy to never eat liver and spinach again.

CNN’s coverage of a protest in Metropolis began. Lois Lane was nowhere in sight. Bruce ran a search for recent work and saw she’d been exclusively writing, no live reports. Her most recent article was on renovations to the aging Metropolis aquarium.

Clark, apparently, had followed through on his threats.

As though summoned by Bruce’s thoughts alone, his communicator beeped once, requesting his attention. Clark’s voice followed.

“The situation in Metropolis,” he said. “I want you on this one.”

“Can’t.” Bruce didn’t elaborate.

“You haven’t been in the field in days. People are starting to talk.”

“I’ll make an appearance,” Bruce paused, doing the math in his head, “in five days.”

A long, put-upon sigh. “This project of yours better be worth it.”

“It will be.” It was everything, would _change_ everything. 

“Fine. Superman out.” The transmission ended.

Bruce checked the bag, saw that it was nearly full. He had ten minutes left on the timer. A quick mental status check: no dizziness, no visual disturbances, no weakness. He could give more.

Bruce let his head fall back, relaxed into his chair, and gave his attention to the monitor. The protest continued. Somewhere on the east coast, a tsunami alert went off. The Lords were ever-present, tending to each event as it cropped up. A better world. 

Central City alone remained quiet. No protests, a dramatic decrease in crime. Central remained the Lords' staunchest supporter. Bruce applauded their good sense. They understood the magnitude of the world’s loss as keenly as Bruce himself, the utter absence of light and levity.

The timer went off. Bruce disconnected the blood bag and pulled the needle from his arm. He’d given up on wearing short sleeves after day one. Getting the needle in his vein on his own hadn’t been as easy as anticipated. Alfred typically handled that. 

He put a bandage on and rolled his sleeve down, quickly placing the bag in the cooler with the others. Four days, he decided, and he’d have all the blood Etrigan needed. One more day after that to recuperate.

Then he had arrangements to make. 

Etrigan sent him the conditions of the ritual the night after their meeting. Bruce memorized them all and recited them to himself during the day. Everything had to be perfect. No mistakes.

Bruce started toward the steps, then thought better of it and took the elevator. No sense in taking chances. He grabbed a premade shake from the kitchen and drank it quickly before heading out the kitchen exit to the gardens. The once palatial rose garden of Wayne Manor had long fallen into disrepair. Bruce didn't waste time on watering or pruning. Everything died quickly without the proper care. He crossed on the remains of the grass, overgrown and mingling with weeds, to the family cemetery.

A small plot, the newest, was the best cared for section of the entire property. His mother and father's graves and beside them, a new marker.

_One who was dear to my heart_ , the stone read. No name, no dates. Purple hyacinth, crimson roses, and cyclamens decorated the plot. Bruce crouched down and righted the flowers knocked about by the wind, straightening the display. Some of them were wilted. He made a note to order a fresh bouquet. 

"It's been six months," he said, tracing the grooves carved into the stone, the feeling he'd agonized to put into words. "I'm closer to getting you back now. Another week. Maybe a little longer." He stood again, the midday heat pounding down on his back. "I haven't told the others. Anyone, actually." _I can't afford to let them stop me_. "I've started ordering some things for you. I remember your favorite foods. Alfred isn't here anymore, but I'm a better cook than I was a few months ago. We'll make do."

Talking to Wally's grave felt simple, the words pouring from his mouth like a fountain of untold feelings. He'd never had enough time, that was all. He'd never gotten the chance to _think_ about Wally, about the unspoken thing between them, until he was cradling his broken body and staring down at the ground through the hole in his head. 

This time would be different. No more secrets. No more pushing things aside, leaving them for later. He'd give Wally everything. He _owed_ Wally everything.

"We'll do better this time," Bruce promised him. "We've made a better world for you. I can't wait for you to see it."

++++++++

_The resurrected must remain within thirty feet of the anchor._

_The resurrected must not feel the light of the sun for three lunar cycles._

_The resurrected must lie with the anchor under the light of the full moon and the new moon._

_The resurrected's soul must remain knitted to the soul of the anchor._

_The anchor and the resurrected are bound to the same fate._

Simple instructions. Bruce repeated them in his mind, searching for loopholes, for traps. A deal with a devil, no matter what peace it would grant him, remained a deal with a devil. Bruce couldn't get what he needed from anyone else, but he'd never let the consequences touch Wally.

"It's been some time, Batman," Wonder Woman greeted him. She must have been waiting by the hangar door the moment she heard the javelin land.

"Only a month," he said. "I've been occupied."

"Yes, I've heard of this project of yours. But only its existence. Will you share it with us?"

"Not yet." They fell into step, walking companionably to the teleportation room. "What's the situation?"

Diana raised an eyebrow at the not-so-subtle change in topic but didn't call him on it. "Superman is holding a press conference at the White House. He wants us all there. A show of strength."

"Makes sense." Clark had shown a surprising aptitude for politics since the Lords had taken control. Bruce was glad for it. "It's about the replacement for Luthor?"

"The country has been without one too long. Luthor's vice-president was found," Diana frowned, her nose wrinkling with distaste, "unsuitable. It took some time, but a candidate was selected. I'm surprised you didn't have more input."

"Not interested." A politician was a politician. He trusted Clark to choose an appropriately malleable one. "What time is the conference?"

Diana looked at the monitor. "In an hour. Superman and the others went early to check the security measures. I wanted to wait for you."

"Did you?" Bruce said, careful and non-committal. Diana's sharp eyes, beautiful and clear like the ocean, watched him. Not so long ago, Bruce felt the pull toward her. Her beauty and kindness and ruthless battle instincts drew him in like a moth to flame. They could have had something, could have _been_ something.

He stepped back, putting space between them. Diana's lips turned down. She understood. 

The specter of Wally stood between them. Had done for a long time. 

"We should join them," Diana said, turning back to the console and setting the destination. 

Bruce followed her onto the teleportation pad. In a few weeks, they wouldn't have to set the coordinates themselves. Clark planned to fully staff the watchtower. Earth would be monitored every second of every day. The grateful public, still the vast majority, rushed to submit their applications the moment the system went live. 

They teleported directly into the oval office. Clark stood facing out the window. The sight startled Bruce. He shook it off.

"Good to see you, Batman." Clark turned away from the window. "I'd like to introduce you to the new president." He gestured to the man sitting at the desk, an older man with tired eyes and a nervous disposition. He looked ready to obey, willingly playing a figurehead. 

"Mr. President," Bruce greeted. 

John and Shayera sat on the couch by the door, Shayera's legs propped up on John's lap. "You're late," she said accusingly. 

Bruce didn't dignify that with a response. "Are the preparations complete?"

"Been ready," John said. He rested a hand on Shayera's ankle, thumb rubbing soothingly over the dip. 

"Let's get this over with," Bruce said. The new president said nothing. No one bothered to share his name. He existed to fill a role. Bruce didn't want any information beyond that.

J'onn stayed out of sight, but Bruce could feel him, touching from one mind to the next, searching for dissent, for thoughts that needed correcting. Superman took point, leading the introduction and press conference while the rest of them stood behind him in a show of solidarity. The masses remained appropriately cowed. The new president looked to Superman for every direction, hung on his word as though nothing else mattered.

Bruce thought of flowers and a grave and the work still to be done. Etrigan would arrive in two days time. 

Diana stuck close to him. She wanted to say something. Bruce could read it in the way she moved, in how she held herself stiff. When the conference ended and the questions ran dry, the Lords returned to the watchtower. 

Bruce strode out of the teleportation room and did not stop until he was in the hangar, preparing the javelin for takeoff. He'd wasted too much time already.

Clark pinged him after takeoff. "Leaving already?"

"I have a commitment." Keep it neutral. They didn't need to know anything, not yet.

"I'm getting worried, Bruce." It was as much a threat as a plea.

"Don't be. I'm almost done. It's for the Lords." 

"This better be one hell of a surprise," Clark said. Then the comm went quiet. One hell of a surprise? That was one way of putting it. 

Bruce broke through the atmosphere and let autopilot take control. He called in a new flower order: tulips, primrose, arbutus. It was time to welcome Wally home.

+++++++

It took six hours to dig up the casket and another hour to lug it back into the house. He'd originally intended to use the cave, but Bruce wanted Wally to return to comfortable surroundings, to warmth and the softest bedding Bruce could find. Per Etrigan's instructions, he boarded up all the windows, blocking out sunlight entirely.

Bruce let the casket rest at the foot of the stairs while he stripped off his filthy, sweat-soaked shirt. He grabbed a water bottle, drained it in ten seconds flat, then returned to the casket. He angled it on the stairs and grabbed the handle near the head of it, dragging the casket up to the top floor and to the master bedroom. 

A white tarp covered the bed and floor. Etrigan warned him the ritual would be messy, and he wanted the clean-up to be quick. Wally, he knew, would need him.

With one final grunt, Bruce let the casket rest next to the bed. He stripped the rest of his clothes off, chucked them down the laundry chute, and took a quick shower. He needed to be ready, needed to double-check his preparations.

Everything had to be perfect.

Food: acquired. He still remembered Wally's favorites, the items he'd choose at the watchtower before anything else. When Wally's parents hadn't been interested in collecting their son's belongings after his death, Bruce cleared out his apartment. He'd kept everything. Wally's clothes were neatly folded in the right side of the wardrobe, his shoes lined up in the walk-in closet. The knick-knacks were in a box, waiting for their owner to come and claim them. 

All of the little pieces of Wally's life, Bruce collected, saving them for this very moment. He was ready. He couldn't be more ready.

Etrigan arrived early. When Bruce let him in, he was covered head to toe, a hood covering his head and face, gloves on. When Bruce closed the door behind him, Etrigan began stripping the extra layers off, grumbling.

"Why didn't you travel in Jason's body?"

"Because," Etrigan said, tossing his gloves, "Jason is adamantly against this. If I give control over to him, I'm unlikely to get it back. And I _do_ so want to hold up my end of the bargain, Bruce, if only to have you under my thumb."

Bruce didn't care what Jason Blood thought of him, nor was he overly concerned about Etrigan's favor, whatever it might be. He only had one thing in mind, his own endgame. Everything else could rot.

"I've set up everything upstairs."

"The body?" Etrigan asked, following Bruce up the stairs. "And the blood?" Bruce saw him glance at the boarded windows. Etrigan's expression gave nothing away.

"Yes, it's all there. I want to begin immediately."

"Imagine my surprise." Etrigan followed Bruce into the dimly lit bedroom, looked at the blocked out windows, the tarp, the casket, and the mini-fridge that held the blood. "Acceptable. Open the casket. I can only guide you from here on. To touch him would interfere. Blood is a finicky branch of magic."

Bruce undid the clasps sealing the casket and lifted the lid. He'd opted not to embalm. There were too many risks of someone putting together Wally and the Flash. The odor hit him first. If Bruce hadn't the experience he did, the smell might have driven him from the room. 

Wally's skin was sloughing off his bones into the visceral goo pooling beneath his remains. Bruce reached out to him, then froze, looking to Etrigan. The demon nodded. Bruce brushed Wally's filthy, matted hair aside, exposing the head wound. 

"What now?" Bruce sounded hoarse. He couldn't decide if he wanted to cry or scream. 

"The blood," Etrigan said. "Pour it over the body. All of it." 

Bruce opened the fridge and grabbed the first bag. He ripped them open, one after another, dousing Wally's corpse, until he tossed the last emptied bag to the side. 

"Place your hand on him," Etrigan instructed, standing at the foot of the casket. "Anywhere at all." When Bruce placed a hand on Wally's chest, the demon began to chant.

The language wasn't English, wasn't _human_ at all. It was a series of low gutteral sounds. Etrigan's voice rose in pitch as he spoke. Every hair on Bruce's body stood on end as a surge of _something_ swept through the room. Energy or magic or whatever else, Bruce couldn't say, but his hand felt trapped against Wally's corpse like a magnet. He couldn't have moved it if he wanted to. His hand began to glow, the faint red light pulsating in time with some unknown beat. The light grew brighter as Etrigan grew louder, and as it flared so bright Bruce had to close his eyes, he realized the pulse kept time with the beat of his heart.

The first thud made Bruce jump and open his eyes, though the magic held fast, pinning his hand in place. Etrigan fell silent, and the light disappeared. Bruce could feel the demon's eyes on him, but his own couldn't tear away from the corpse, if it could still be called that.

A heartbeat. Beneath his hand, Bruce felt Wally's _heartbeat._

"What do I do?" Bruce felt panic well in his chest, claw its way up his throat. His other hand moved on its own, cupping Wally's cheek, turning the decayed face toward him. All the while, Wally's heart beat ceaselessly, steadily.

"Guide him back." Etrigan backed away, one hand already on the door. Bruce started, turning toward him, but Etrigan snapped, "Don't look away from him!" Bruce's attention jerked back to the casket. Wally's corpse shook, the tremors splashing blood onto the tarp. "Don't look away from him. Don't take your hand off of him. You must anchor his soul. Worry not for his body. The blood and magic will do the rest."

He didn't hear Etrigan leave. Bruce realized he must have, though, when the weight of his gaze disappeared.

Bruce shuffled closer on his knees, sitting Wally up and cradling him to his chest. Blood ran down his arm, soaking the tarp. The smell--Bruce would never forget it. 

The corpse gave a great shudder as the blood and viscera pooling around it moved. As though winding itself into a thick rope, the liquid slithered its way over and into Wally's body, covering him and filling the places where skin and organs had sunken in. Bruce watched as the fluid appeared to solidify, regrowing the decayed tissue. 

Wally's face, sunken and sallow over the shape of his skull, seemed to inflate, the shape of his nose, his lips, his eyes reforming. The corpse became a man before Bruce's very eyes, so transfixing a sight that when he felt a soft, faltering touch to the hand magicked to Wally's chest Bruce jolted. 

Fingers brushed across the top of his hand, leaving hesitant strokes of blood in their wake. 

"Wally," Bruce breathed. He held the body closer, burying his face in Wally's hair. The scent of death and decay faded, lost in the aroma of earth and blood. Wally's questing fingers grew stronger. He gripped Bruce's wrist and held him tight. "I'm here, Wally. I've been here. Come back to me, Wally. Come back!"

That hand gripped him harder, the other reaching further still, clenching in Bruce's shirt. Wally let out a wet gasp, then another, and another. His body came together beneath Bruce's hands and finally, the magic released him. Wally was sobbing, gasping, clutching to Bruce as though to hold himself together. Bruce lifted him from the casket, from the blood and filth beneath him, and laid him on the bed, falling onto it beside him.

"Wally," Bruce chanted his name, like a prayer, like a spell. He held him close as Wally shook. "You're back. You're _back_."

Wally's dark eyes were opened so wide they looked bulging. His chest heaved, and in a distant corner of Bruce's mind, something fit into place, a muted fear that wasn't his own. Wally's. It must have been Wally's. Bruce thought of the conditions, that Wally's soul would remain knitted to his own. He hadn't understood. Perhaps he didn't still, but some part of Wally was now bound to him. Bruce felt his own delight in stark contrast to Wally's fear. 

"You're safe, Wally," he told him. "You're _alive_."

And Wally, terrified and drenched in blood and wearing the ragged remains of the clothes Bruce buried him in, looked up at him and said, "I don't--don't understand. Who _are_ you? Where is this? I was--" He cast a glance wildly around the room. "I wasn't here. I was _there_. This isn't where I'm supposed to be!"

Bruce forgot. He was an utter _fool_. How had he forgotten Wally died never knowing his face? His name?

"Wally," Bruce couldn't stop saying his name. His grip on the man tightened. "It's me. It's Batman."

All at once, Wally drooped. The fear blossoming in Wally twisted into something else. Bruce felt the echo of it in his mind. Fear and sorrow and something white hot. Bruce didn't know. He stared into Wally's eyes, willing him to believe. "My name, my _real_ name--it's Bruce Wayne. You're in my home. I've been looking for you for months."

"Bruce," Wally said, dazed. Then, "I was dead."

"Yes."

"I wasn't lost, Bruce." Wally's voice sounded stronger. "I was _dead_."

"I know. I brought you back, Wally." Bruce, as a rule, rarely smiled, but he couldn't keep his face straight, couldn't hide how happy he was. All that waiting. All that terrible waiting.

Wally stared up at him. He didn't seem to know what to say, so Bruce continued to hold him close. They had plenty of time for talking. Wally just needed to adjust. His emotions were going haywire. It was only reasonable.

Bruce would wait for him. He'd always wait for Wally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos! <3 They mean the world to me.

The water running in the bathroom sounded incredibly loud in the oppressive quiet of Bruce's bedroom. Bruce insisted on leaving the door open a crack so he could hear if Wally needed anything. The light stretched in a line from the door to the bedside table, cutting across Wally's feet. 

In the corner, stuffed into a trash bag, sat the tarp. Getting it into the bag hadn't been easy. The moment they were done, Bruce insisted Wally get cleaned up. He'd sat outside the bathroom, occasionally calling Wally's name as though to make sure he was actually there.

He shouldn't have bothered. Wally was definitely there. And he could feel Bruce all the time.

The water cut off. Wally clenched his hands in the comforter, knuckles going white, and listened to Bruce walking around the bathroom, the sound of him dressing. When he walked out, Wally felt him, the way he sparked straight to euphoria in the back of Wally's head. Wally felt sick. 

"I've got your shoes," Bruce said, a complete non-sequitur. He opened the walk-in closet, glanced back at Wally with a thoughtful frown, then pulled out a pair of sandals. He put them down in front of Wally.

They _were_ his, not just replacements. Wally put them on. He looked at Bruce. What the hell was he supposed to say? Bruce kept looking at him, and Wally could _feel_ his expectations. Finally, he cleared his throat and looked at his feet. "Thanks."

Again, that happiness, warped and spiking in the back of Wally's mind. "You're welcome." Bruce's voice was deep, but not Batman deep. They really were like two separate people. "I kept all your things. You can go through them later. But it's night now. I have something to show you."

Bruce held out a hand. Wally took it, let him pull him to his feet. He wiggled his toes in the sandals, marveling at the feeling. Everything felt so intense, the feel of Bruce's hand in his, the clothes he wore brushing against his skin, everything magnified by a thousand. Wally tried to let go of Bruce's hand. Bruce grasped it tighter.

"For the time being, you can't go outside during the day," Bruce said, leading Wally out of the room. When Wally tried to pause in the doorway, suddenly overwhelmed by the space beyond the threshold, Bruce pulled him along. "Just at night. The windows are boarded up, of course. I wouldn't take any chances, not with you."

Numb, that's what Wally felt, completely numb, whatever fear he'd had holding court in his heart had been smothered out of existence by the feeling of _absolutely nothing_. Bruce kept right on talking, his hand hot and clammy in Wally's. 

Wally wanted to ask why he couldn't go out in the day. He wanted to yank his hand away from Bruce and run back to Central City. But he couldn't. He felt trapped, attached to Bruce in a way he didn't understand. So he did nothing, opting to let Bruce drag him along out of the house and across the yard like a dog on a leash. Bruce kept up a running monologue of all the repairs he would make to the manor to make it more comfortable for Wally, like Wally would be living there. 

No, not _like_. Wally had a pretty good idea of what was going through Bruce's head, and it began and ended with Wally never leaving his sight. Every shift in emotion, every subtle nuance, Wally felt. It was him. Every bit of it revolved around him.

At the edge of the large backyard, they reached a footpath that wound through a small wooded area and ended in a cemetery. Bruce took him over to a smaller corner of the cemetery where the landscaping still looked well-groomed. Three gravestones sat on the plot. The first two read Martha Wayne and Thomas Wayne, and Wally somehow knew without truly knowing that these were Bruce's parents. He found himself drawing closer, squeezing the man's hand in sympathy.

The third headstone had no name. It read: _One who was dear to my heart_. Fresh flowers decorated the stone, artfully arranged in an array of whites and pinks. The grave itself was an empty hole, dirt piled beside the stone.

Bruce released his hand and crouched down, running his hands over the stone, the flower petals, brushing dirt away with an ease that spoke of routine. "I visited you here every day."

His grave. That was _Wally's grave_. His stomach turned. Bruce didn't seem to notice.

"I did everything I could," Bruce swore. "I never meant it to take so long." He stood again, turned to Wally, grabbing his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, Wally. I'm sorry for everything."

For the wrong things, Wally couldn't bring himself to say. He wanted to push Bruce aside and crawl back into his grave. The memories of where he'd been, the place Bruce tore him out of, were fading, as though a mortal mind couldn't conceive of it. The last solid picture he had was of Barry and Iris. He'd been with them. He couldn't remember it, not really, but the _feeling_ , the love? That, he would never forget.

"It's okay, Bruce," Wally said, patting one of Bruce's hands. It wasn't. Nothing about this even touched being okay. But the man in front of him felt broken, and despite it all, Wally remembered who Bruce had been. Wally remembered the candle he'd always held for Batman, the hideously enormous crush he'd hoped no one noticed but feared he couldn't conceal. That man wasn't here, not that Wally could see, but if his death is what broke him, Wally, ever the bleeding heart, couldn't tell Bruce the truth about what he'd done.

He couldn't tell Bruce he'd ripped Wally out of heaven, out of his family's arms, out of the most perfect happiness anyone could ever know.

"The flowers are nice," Wally said, a little desperate, and Bruce latched on to the statement.

"They're a gift," Bruce said. "I always kept fresh ones for you."

"That's nice." Oh God, oh fuck, Wally didn't know what to say, where to start. "Why," Wally licked his lips, his mouth incredibly dry all of a sudden, "why did you have my body? Do my parents know?"

The echo of Bruce in Wally's mind went quiet for a beat, then exploded into a rage that made Wally flinch. Bruce was quick to cup Wally's face, thumb stroking soothingly. "They didn't want--" He stopped. Bruce's eyebrows dipped down. 

"They didn't want it," Wally finished. He wasn't surprised. They rarely spoke, after all, and his father made it clear Wally was a disappointment. Wally didn't know what to expect, but he still felt the hurt well up in his chest, young and aching just the same as it had watching his parents drive away from Barry and Iris' front porch.

"I wanted it," Bruce said. "I wanted you. Anyone in the League would have, but I got there first. I have all your things, Wally." _You're wanted_ , Bruce projected. 

Wally's eyes burned. He didn't want to cry in front of Bruce, but everything felt too intense, too much. He wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to go. "Thanks." His voice cracked. Bruce gathered him close, and Wally _broke_ , sobbing into Bruce's shoulder.

+++++++

"There's things we need to discuss." Bruce set a bottle of water on the nightstand. Wally was already in bed. Bruce's bed. Where Bruce apparently expected him to sleep. "Conditions to your revival. I don't want to overdo it on your first day. Sleep for now. I'll be right here." Bruce slid under the covers. 

Wally lay flat on his back, eyes trained on the ceiling. Bruce's breathing evened out, but Wally doubted he was actually asleep. Probably just pretending to make Wally more comfortable.

The space between them felt simultaneously too vast and too small. In a different life, Wally would have lost his mind at the idea of being in bed with Batman. But in the here and now, he was afraid. Bruce hadn't even _asked_. He just steered Wally toward the bed and climbed in on the other side. 

How long had he been dead? He'd never seen Bruce's face, and he'd never paid attention to the news. Had those lines always been at the corners of Bruce's eyes? Years could have passed for all Wally knew. Years upon years upon years.

Wally closed his eyes. He needed to sleep. He didn't want to be awake anymore. But sleep didn't come. Wally felt wired, like he'd had coffee and gone for a run and then three rounds with Grodd. He pushed the covers off and started to move, but Bruce rolled over and grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going?"

"I can't sleep. Too much energy."

"Then I'll come with you." Bruce let him go and sat up.

"You don't have to."

"I do," Bruce insisted. "We can't be more than thirty feet apart."

"And that would be because…?"

"The ritual that brought you back. I told you there were conditions."

"What ritual exactly? Where did you find it?" Wally couldn't think of a single magic user he knew of who would be willing to help Batman, let alone help him bring someone back from the dead. 

Bruce didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, "I told you. I've been searching from the moment I buried you. I exhausted all avenues before I contacted Etrigan."

"Etrigan," Wally echoed. Who was…? Oh shit. "Etrigan the Demon?"

"He had what I needed. I have what he needs."

"What did you have to give up for that?" Wally was almost afraid of the answer.

"Nothing of consequence. Come on, you said you're restless. Let's wear you out."

They walked the grounds for hours, the crescent moon high above them. Bruce insisted they stay close, touching at all times. In a burst of frustration, Wally tried to access the speed force and came up blank.

"It'll take time to re-establish your connection," Bruce said. He sounded so sure, but Wally, on the verge of hysteria, decided he was just telling Wally what he thought Wally wanted to hear. He didn't know _shit_. 

All at once, Bruce's proximity overwhelmed him. Wally shoved him back. The moon was dipping down below the treeline, morning growing near. Wally wanted out. He wanted as far away from Bruce as he could get. And he didn't need the speed force to make that happen.

Wally turned and ran, darting for the trees, for any cover that would give him the advantage, but he heard Bruce closing in, feet pounding the ground, never allowing the distance between them to grow. 

"Leave me alone!" Wally's scream echoed. Though he knew there was no one around for miles, he wondered if someone would hear, would come for him. Bruce was out of his goddamn mind. Wally should have been left alone, left in the ground to--

Bruce slammed into him from behind. His arms went around Wally, trapping him in place and driving Wally's face into the ground. "I told you," the voice was a growl, more Batman than Bruce. "We can't be apart. No more than thirty feet. I won't allow you to damage yourself! Not when you've come this far!"

"I haven't done anything!" Wally's voice cracked, pitch high and bordering on hysterical. "You fucking lunatic! I haven't done a _goddamn thing_ , it was all you!" A yearning bloomed within him, like a rope at his heart, tugging him. Wally felt at once disconnected from his anger, his fear. He could go, he realized. The world around him felt blank, gray, like static on a television. Bruce's weight was nothing. He could simply leave.

"No, damn you, _no_!" A blow struck the back of Wally's head, the pain sharp and unrelenting. Color and noise returned to him. Bruce jerked him up, rolled him over onto his back, and pressed his forehead to Wally's. "You can't leave. It's trying to pull you back, isn't it? Don't listen. _Here_ is where you need to be, Wally. I'm your anchor. I'll take care of everything."

He carried Wally back to the mansion and up the stairs, gently placing him on the bed and fussing with the sheets. Wally didn't bother opening his eyes. He knew he'd be able to sleep this time. Being awake was an unacceptable alternative.

++++++++

"You didn't tell me about this."

"I said you had to anchor him, did I not?" Etrigan sounded smug. Bruce clenched the phone so hard the plastic creaked. 

"For three lunar cycles, I have to prevent his soul from leaving his body? He's hysterical. His emotions are out of control. How am I supposed to keep him here?" He'd thought it was just during the ritual. He hadn't understood. God help him, he hadn't even tried.

But the moment Wally went limp under him, Bruce felt it, the pull. He felt Wally's soul just…. drift. The feel of it tearing at his own soul, trying to drag it into the afterlife was not one Bruce would soon forget.

"You must remember, Bruce. I adapted this ritual for you. Consider the amount of blood you used."

Four pints. Nearly half a human body's worth, Bruce realized. "I wouldn't have lived without advance warning."

"Consider what the ritual's original purpose must have been. Keeping the Flash in this realm will be no easy task. But keep him here you must. The consequences of failure would be…severe." 

"I'm glad this amuses you."

"I never intended you to fail. Don't forget, there's still the matter of your payment to discuss." Etrigan hung up. Bruce placed the phone on the bedside table instead of throwing it against the wall like he wanted to.

Ninety days. He had to keep Wally with him for ninety days, had to make him _want_ to stay with Bruce. He twisted around and leaned over on the bed. Wally's chest continued to rise and fall. He picked up Wally's wrist and felt for the steady thumping of his pulse. Still there. Wally was just sleeping. 

Outside, the sun was rising. Bruce, fortunately, had long been accustomed to a nocturnal life. With Wayne Enterprises no longer a major concern and the Lords watching over Gotham and the world at large, Bruce couldn't think of a single thing that might distract him. Wally needed his complete focus. If his emotions continued to get the better of him, Wally wouldn't be able to prevent his soul from drifting. Bruce had to be the responsible one.

His thumb caressed Wally's wrist. He'd just have to shift his focus, become more than a temporary anchor. Bruce needed to become the very thing Wally clung to, his reason for existing. 

It wouldn't be difficult. He remembered the box from Wally's apartment, the pictures he'd kept from the League, all of Batman. The newspaper articles. He'd wanted Bruce then, whether he knew it or not. Bruce could give that to him. 

Wally's nose wrinkled in his sleep, his hand batting at something from his dreams. Bruce pushed his hair from his eyes, wiping away the dirt on his face. It wouldn't be difficult. Not at all. 

At his touch, Wally stirred again. His eyes opened and fixed on Bruce who continued to stroke his head, fingers combing through his hair. "You hit me." He didn't sound accusing. Bruce focused on the link between them. Wally's emotions were like a placid lake, nothing like the whirling torrent from their scuffle.

"I did," Bruce agreed. "You were hurting yourself. I didn't have any sedatives on hand."

Wally frowned but didn't push Bruce away. "I don't remember. I tried to--" He stopped speaking, a shudder running through him.

"What? What did you try to do?" If he remembered, Bruce didn't know how to handle the situation. It would be so much easier if Wally forgot.

"I tried to access the speed force." Wally's voice dropped to a whisper. He spoke quickly. "I couldn't. It's not there."

"It _is_ there, Wally." Bruce kept Wally's emotional state under close observation. _Proceed with caution_. "You've only been back a few hours. Give it time."

Irritation. "Back?" Wally pushed Bruce's hand away. Fear, too. Bruce watched the change. "I told you already!" Wally said. He sat up, the covers pooling around his waist. "I wasn't lost or--or on vacation, Bruce. I was dead! There's a _difference_!"

Bruce raised a hand and slowly leaned forward, telegraphing his every move. He cupped Wally's cheek. "Dead, lost, trapped in space--Wally, do you really think that matters? Don't you understand what it did to us? To me?"

Wally glanced at the hand on his face, then to Bruce, then the bed. "I have an idea." He didn't elaborate, but his mood seemed to be settling again.

"You didn't sleep long. You should rest--"

"You didn't sleep at all, did you?" Wally cut him off. "You just, what, stared at me the whole time?"

"I have to watch you. The conditions--"

"I don't care," Wally cut him off. He grabbed Bruce's wrist but didn't push his hand away. "Can you even hear yourself?"

"Perfectly well, yes."

They stared each other down. The light from the bathroom filtered into the dark room, giving the illusion of night though Bruce knew the sun had to be rising. Wally was in his bed. Above everything else that happened, that Wally was there, with him? He caught himself leaning closer, freezing. 

Wally's eyes dropped down to Bruce's mouth. The distance between them shrank until their breathing intermingled. Wally still carried that earthy scent. Bruce wondered if it was a side effect, if he'd carry it with him the rest of his life.

"I don't understand you." Wally's words tickled the line of his jaw. "I don't think I ever did." 

Not yet. Wally wasn't ready yet. Bruce could feel as much in the confusion and sorrow echoing in his own mind. If Bruce pushed, Wally would cave. He'd let Bruce touch him, but he'd pull back afterwards. One step forward, three steps back. 

Bruce leaned away, noting with no small amount of satisfaction the way Wally moved after him, a telling subconscious motion. Not yet. Soon, Bruce knew, but not yet.

+++++++++

Bruce Wayne didn't have a television.

It took Wally three days to catch on. Granted, he might as well have been catatonic during those three days, but still! When he could finally bring himself to get out of Bruce's bed, he wanted two things. Well, three, actually: a shower, a boatload of greasy food, and a TV to stare mindlessly at while he contemplated his own ridiculous existence.

The usual.

The first two Bruce was more than happy to provide. He'd have bathed Wally himself if he'd shown any inclination. Food, Bruce had in spades, and all of Wally's favorites. He'd even ordered a few pizzas while Wally cried in the shower. 

Eating was an experience. Without the speed force, he didn't need to eat roughly his own body weight in food at every sitting, but he still felt compelled to. He nearly made himself sick. Bruce already had antacids and a ginger ale out before Wally could voice a complaint. He didn't know if Bruce felt his discomfort through their weird brain thing or if he was just that observant. Little bit of A, little bit of B, Wally figured.

He let Wally explore the manor, following behind him and explaining historical details about different rooms and paintings, filling the silence in a way Batman never bothered to. His voice set Wally on edge. The role reversal freaked him out. 

"Where's the TV?"

"I don't have one," Bruce said. "I don't watch it. No one else lives here, so there wasn't a point."

Lie. That Wally could tell surprised him. He decided to keep that secret to himself. "Well, now someone does. Mind ordering one? Or better yet, let's go out and get one." Even Gotham had a Walmart, right? 

Bruce looked Wally up and down, eyebrow raising at the Bugs Bunny pajama bottoms and baggy white shirt. "I'll order one online," he said after a moment. 

"I could change," Wally insisted. "I've got other clothes." Which Bruce damn well knew. 

"Not yet. It's--I'm not ready." He smiled apologetically, and Wally hated how handsome he was. He'd known Batman had to be gorgeous before, hadn't ever questioned it, but now it just pissed him off. 

"What about me?" Wally asked. "Bruce, you can't keep me trapped here for--for however long this lasts!" He was already going stir-crazy, and he'd only been up and about for a day. 

"Not yet." Bruce smoothed his hands down Wally's arms, grabbing his hands. "Wally, trust me on this. There are things, things I haven't explained yet."

Yeah, Wally figured as much. He could feel Bruce's squirrely little brain working constantly, deflecting, ever-attentive but equally dismissive. He wasn't exactly lying to Wally, and neither was he hiding just how much he wanted to keep from Wally. "You have _no idea_ how reassuring that isn't. Bruce, come on. Rip off the band-aid. I can't freaking take this, man!"

Bruce raised a hand, gesturing Wally to follow. He led him into the kitchen and opened the fridge. "I'm sure you're tired of pizza. What would you like?"

Just like that, discussion over. Topic verboten. Wally sat at the breakfast bar, still in his pajamas and feeling every inch a child again. "Whatever," he said. "Whatever is fine."

Bruce turned from the open fridge and frowned. "Are you not feeling well? I've never heard you unenthusiastic about food before."

Floored, Wally crossed his arms on the breakfast bar and buried his face in them. No speed force, freshly yanked from his eternal rest, and held hostage by Batman who may or may not have lost his mind. Right, just another day, situation normal. "Must be my allergies," he joked, hoping he didn't sound as bleak as he felt.

"You don't have allergies."

Right, of _course_ Bruce knew that. "Peanut butter," Wally said. "On bread." Not that that sounded appetizing, but it was the first thing that came to mind. When he finally lifted his face, Bruce was already making him a sandwich. Wally could feel his single-minded focus. On a _sandwich_.

Okay, stop, breathe. If this were actually a mission, the first thing a sane Batman would have done was gather information. What did Wally know?

Bruce brought him back from the dead with Etrigan the Demon's help. 

Bruce wouldn't let him leave the manor. No sunlight, no being further than thirty feet away.

Wally only had Bruce's word on that and no clue what violating those rules would do to him.

Lastly, and possibly the most important fact, Bruce hadn't mentioned the Justice League, not outside of a few vague comments about how crushed they'd been by Wally's death. Bruce hadn't mentioned Batman or patrolling his city or _anything_ related to super-heroing.

The manor's property line, as far as Wally could tell, extended beyond what he could see. Who knew how far away civilization was? In fact, Wally couldn't even reliably say where he was on Earth. Again, he only had Bruce's word on being in Gotham. No television, no computers, and the only phone he'd seen was Bruce's cellphone. 

And he still didn't know how long he'd been dead. Had the world ended? Was this really his Batman?

Bruce put a plate in front of him, along with a glass of water. "Your mind is going a thousand miles a minute, Wally. I can feel you worrying."

Wally grabbed the sandwich and took a bite. He really had just slathered peanut butter on bread and called it a meal. "M'fine," he said around a mouthful. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize." Bruce looked at him, and Wally felt the swell of affection like a punch in the gut. "I know how difficult this must be for you." God, it was too much, _way_ too much to hold for just one person. Wally still didn't know if what Bruce felt could be called love. It would strike him at the oddest moments, when Wally said something or looked at him a certain way, and the force of Bruce's _whatever_ would knock the air of Wally. Love, the sort someone might have for a cherished possession, ownership. And at the edge of it, a fear so intense Wally broke out into a cold sweat.

Then it would disappear again, lost with the passing moment. 

"Difficult is one word for it." Wally kept eating the sandwich. Bruce kept watching Wally. It was a thing they did now apparently.

Bruce's reluctance to discuss the League with him, or anything beyond the happenings in Wayne Manor, didn't change with the passing days. If Wally tested the boundaries Bruce set for him, Bruce was never more than a step behind him. 

Over the following week, Wally began piecing together the information he painstakingly extracted from Bruce. But separating the mission he'd assigned himself and the lingering affection he held for Bruce tore at Wally. The man oscillated between the fractured version of Bruce who'd first greeted Wally in this new life and the version of him from before. Glimpses of Batman only made it more difficult for Wally to keep his head. 

Frustrating didn't begin to describe it. Wally wanted something in black and white, wanted answers and certainty. If he had to deal with magic, he wanted a fairy godmother to pop out of nowhere, wave her wand, and fix it all for him. 

No such luck. By the time the night of the full moon rolled around, Wally could say the only thing he knew with absolute certainty was that he'd been right about magic all along. It was _absolute bullshit_.

"It's weird, right?" Wally settled into the reclining chair on the back patio overlooking the dead garden, staring up at the full moon. "Lie together? What does that even _mean_?"

"I expect it's literal," Bruce said. He'd dragged his chair right up against Wally's so their arms touched. 

"Well, we're sitting, not lying. Anyway, that crap's never literal." Magic, as a rule, was a pain in the ass. 

"Then what?" Bruce asked. Wally looked over at him and frowned. "What do you think it means?" Bruce clarified.

A chill swept over Wally. He knew what he thought it meant. Fucking. Sex. He thought it meant he and Bruce should be making the beast with two backs under the full moon in Bruce's stupid reclining chairs. Bruce must have gotten a sense of what Wally thought because his eyes darkened. His hand brushed Wally's. Wally didn't move.

"Doesn't matter," he said. He couldn't let himself get swept away. Bruce still owed him an explanation, a _lot_ of explanations. Not to mention a goddamn tv. 

Bruce laced their fingers together. His hand felt blistering hot against Wally's, and he couldn't stop himself from wondering what having Bruce's entire body pressed up against his own would feel like. Like a live wire, probably, impossible to let go of. 

His eyes never left Wally. Wally felt his face go red. It wasn't right to want Bruce like this, this broken version of the man he'd chased a lifetime ago. But who was going to stop them? They were utterly alone. Wally could just… let it happen. 

When Bruce leaned in, Wally didn't stop him. When Bruce kissed him, Wally didn't run.

It was for the spell, he decided, sliding off his chair and into Bruce's lap. Bruce was an idiot. The spell definitely wanted them to fuck. Wally could feel it in his bones.

Bruce groaned, one hand winding into Wally's hair, giving it a light tug. Fuck, but it felt good. Wally broke away from the kiss, working his mouth against Bruce's jaw, his neck. When Bruce's free hand grabbed his ass and squeezed, Wally ground down. 

"We should--a bed," Bruce tried, but he couldn't stop grinding his cock against Wally's belly. His pleasure hit Wally and ran into an endless loop. Wally couldn't tell where his own feelings started and Bruce's ended.

"Gotta stay here," Wally tried to shush him, pressing a sloppy kiss to Bruce's mouth and missing the mark, hitting the corner of his lips. Bruce huffed a laugh and turned his head to meet Wally's. 

"If we go upstairs," Bruce panted, "I could fuck you, or you could fuck me. I could finger you open till you're just wet enough," oh Jesus, oh fuck, Wally couldn't take it, needed to hear more of Bruce's filthy mouth. Bruce's hand snuck down the back of his pants and squeezed his ass again, thumb slipping between his cheeks and pressing at his hole.

Wally bowed his back over Bruce and came, thighs shaking, core trembling. Bruce worked him through it, let Wally rub himself off against Bruce's hip. When he collapsed over Bruce, he could still feel Bruce's dick against him. He was so hard. Wally shifted over Bruce, settling into the crook of his arm as best he could in the narrow space the chair allowed him. He looked into Bruce's eyes as he reached down, rubbing the outline of his cock through the soft fabric of his sweatpants. Bruce's head fell back, his mouth open.

He could feel how Bruce wanted him now, clearer than before. He could feel the build toward satisfaction. "Next time," Wally said, pushing his hand under Bruce's waistband, "you can lay me out and fuck me all you want, but tonight," Bruce was leaking, so ready for Wally's hand, "we gotta stick with the magic rules." He jacked Bruce's cock slowly at first, feeling that hard, broad body go tense below him. He liked it, Bruce desperate. Wally liked the control, being the one to set the pace. Bruce didn't make a sound, but for the constant reel of feeling he projected into Wally's mind, he might as well have been begging. Bruce came with a groan, spilling over Wally's fist. 

"Definitely magical," Wally said. "Maybe we should have taped it for Etrigan."

"I sincerely doubt Etrigan has any interest--"

"A _joke_ , Bruce! It was a joke!" 

Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. Wally laid his head on Bruce's shoulder and pulled his hands free of Bruce's pants. He wiped his hand on Bruce's shirt.

"Thank you for that," Bruce said, dry as the desert. 

"All part of the service I provide," Wally said, and he marveled at how sleepy he suddenly felt. Not tired, that exhaustion chasing him from the moment he left his grave but impossible to satisfy, but a pleasant, drowsy feeling. Bruce's deep voice murmured something, but Wally's eyes were already closed. 

He dreamed for the first time since his death.

Bruce was with him, the Bruce from before. They were in Walmart, and every aisle was just row after row of televisions, all of them playing the same newsreel of President Luthor. Wally kept trying to get Bruce out of the store, but he wouldn't listen, and then--

_Crack_.

Wally jolted awake, breathing heavy. He'd never been so thankful to not be in Walmart.

Bruce shifted under him but didn't wake. The sky was still dark, but the moon had begun to dip lower. How long had he slept? And what woke him up? Craning his neck over Bruce's shoulder, he saw Bruce's phone on the ground. It must have fallen.

Reaching down, he grabbed it, turning the screen to face him. He jerked back when the light turned on full force, cringing. The screen was on the alarm app. Of course Bruce set an alarm. He pushed the home button and brought up the menu.

The phone was unlocked.

Could it really be that easy? Wally's heart picked up, racing faster and faster until it was all but slamming into his chest. _Calm down_ , he told himself. If Bruce woke up… what? What would happen if Bruce woke up?

He brought up the internet. The homepage was set up on local news, Gotham related stuff. Wally went to Google. His hands were shaking. Bruce still hadn't woken up, his breath puffing against Wally's temple. 

His first search on the Flash brought up mostly testimonials, information about Central City's memorial service. He went back to the search bar and typed in 'Justice League'.

At first, Wally didn't understand what he was looking at. President Luthor was dead? He clicked the first article, dated about six months after his death and, according to the internet, about a month earlier than the present. The top image was a man standing with Superman in front of the Whitehouse, the League in the background.

JUSTICE LORDS APPOINT NEW PRESIDENT, the title read. Lords? Justice _Lords_?

President Luthor, the article explained, was dead because Superman killed him. The League, now the Lords, took control of the world following his murder. 

Bruce told him once the League had made changes. He said they'd made a better world. The more Wally read, the more he realized how untrue that was.

The League hadn't changed after Wally's death. It was...gone. Whatever it was, whoever those people were, the Justice League had no part in it. His friends wouldn't do that. Not _his_ friends.

He didn't realize he'd dropped the phone until Bruce caught it. Wally sat up, but Bruce grabbed him around the waist. "You're panicking, Wally." His voice was low, rough with sleep. "Breathe. Just _breathe_." 

Wally couldn't even look at him. "What did you do?" 

"You don't understand." Bruce sounded so patient, like he was explaining some simple fact of life to a child. "We did it for _you_ , Wally. It's what we should have done to begin with."

"Oh my God. _Oh my God._ " He could feel Bruce's sincerity, the certainty behind every word. 

"You'll understand in time. I knew you weren't ready." He nuzzled against the back of Wally's neck, frustration leaking into Wally's mind. "Just keep breathing, Wally. You're doing so well."

Wally felt sick. He wanted to run. He wanted to be as far away from Bruce as he could get, but the horizon beyond the Wayne property no longer held any promise of peace for him.

A better world, Bruce had told Wally. He'd never said how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a Tumblr here: yellow-warbler.tumblr.com. come talk about BatFlash with me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the end!
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! I really appreciate it, more than you know.

The boarded windows bothered John. Wayne Manor was an architectural gem on the outskirts of Gotham, the kind of old world New England style he'd favored in college. Not necessarily practical, but beautiful. The windows were boarded with plywood like an abandoned building. All it needed was a few graffiti tags and the picture of a condemned building would be perfect.

He landed at the end of the long driveway. Bruce already knew he was there, no question about it. 

John walked the rest of the way and banged on the door. No response. He banged again. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, the midday heat unbearable. "Bruce! Open up!"

Officially, John wasn't there. But after Bruce went full radio silence for weeks on end? Unofficially, the Lords had to check. Batman was a staple member of the Lords, always in the background but still a frightening presence to the public. And the public? They'd been wondering if the Bat wasn't behind the Lords after all.

John raised his fist to pound on the door again, but the sound of footsteps approaching stopped him.

"You shouldn't be here," Bruce said. He opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it behind him.

"Good to see you too," John said, taking in the sight: bags under his eyes, hair a bird's nest, looking like he hadn't showered in days. He'd never seen Bruce unshaven, but he was rocking the five o'clock shadow. 

"I'm busy."

"Apparently so. We haven't heard from you in a month, Bruce."

Bruce crossed his arms. "I kept Superman in the loop."

"No, you didn't. Clark's the one who sent me." Not exactly a lie but not the truth either. Clark wanted to come himself. Diana talked him down, said Bruce needed an impersonal touch. She probably hadn't meant to rule herself out, but Clark chose John. 

The frown turned into a scowl. "I don't answer to you or to Clark. What I'm doing--it's more important than you could ever understand. When the time is right, I'll read the Lords in."

"Good to hear," John said, "because today's the day, Bruce." He let the light flare on his ring.

Bruce didn't react to the threat. He grimaced, reaching back to grab the door handle. "The timing," he said, "it's all wrong."

"Bruce." The first inkling of concern made itself known in John's mind. Bruce continued to stare at a point beyond John's shoulder, not altogether present. " _Bruce_!"

"Shut _up_." Bruce opened the door and took a step backwards over the threshold. "Come on, then, if you're so set on staying." He ushered John in and closed the door behind him. Inside, the manor was dark. If John hadn't known better, he'd think it was the dead of night. Bruce led John through a sitting room and past the kitchen into some kind of entertainment room. A television sat on a low coffee table, the box it came in off to the side. Just visible over the back of the couch was a tuft of familiar red hair.

John's head whipped around to Bruce. "What the hell did you do?" There was no way. There was _no way_. John was overreacting. Trauma and familiar stimuli. He knew what happened, saw it in his marine buddies all the time. 

The red hair moved, the profile of a face visible as whoever Bruce found stretched and looked over the back of the couch. The television, set on some daytime drama, played on. "He did exactly what it looks like," the thing on the couch said in Wally's voice. 

"Bruce," John said, then stopped. How? Better yet, why? 

"I told you. I had a plan. I figured out how to fix everything. I just needed the time."

John looked back at the couch. Wally, if that's who he was, was back to watching television, like an argument wasn't happening three feet behind him. "Are you?" He had to know. "Are you Wally?" 

"Last I checked." His voice was off though. He _sounded_ like Wally, sure, but the slow slur of his words--No.

"You drugged him?" John demanded, taking a step toward Bruce.

"He's emotionally unstable. I just took the edge off for him. In a few days, I can try weaning him back down."

Wally didn't acknowledge them. John kept waiting for it, for a smart ass comment, for a bad joke, for some small part of Wally. The guy on the couch might as well have been a corpse. 

"Wally, look at me." John waited until that familiar face turned to him. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was obvious Wally was drugged from his glazed eyes and sluggish movements. "Get up. I'm taking you to the watchtower. We'll help you, Wally."

"You can't!" Bruce moved between them. "The conditions for his return can't be violated." 

"It doesn't matter," Wally said before John could pin Bruce in place with a construct. "I'm not going to the watchtower. Ever."

"What the hell do you mean?" John demanded. "Wally, we're your friends! Whatever Bruce did--"

"You don't seriously think it's about that, right?" Wally got off the couch, unsteady like a foal. Bruce moved to help him but Wally flung his arms out. "I know what you've done, what you've all done! Every last one of you is just as nuts at Bats here is!" He stumbled backwards and Bruce didn't hesitate, just grabbed him around the waist and yanked him close. John's eyes went to the hand squeezing Wally's hip. Something was off. 

"You talking about Luthor?" John had often wondered what Wally would say if he ever saw the Lords in action. He'd hoped his friend would understand that they'd done it for _him_ , but he also couldn't deny the truth. There was a reason the Lords couldn't exist in Wally's lifetime.

"And everything after." Wally didn't shove Bruce away this time. His body sagged against Bruce's, hand reaching for the couch again. "Just… just leave me alone, man. Get out of here."

Bruce eased Wally onto the couch. "He's fragile right now," he said, like Wally wasn't sitting _right there_ listening. "You should have trusted my judgement."

The kicker was Bruce didn't even get it, had no idea what this trainwreck looked like to an outside observer. John couldn't reconcile this Bruce with the one he'd seen at the Whitehouse all those weeks ago. When had he come unhinged? Maybe he'd always been like that. Maybe he just couldn't hide it now, not with the evidence of what he'd done lying drugged on his couch. 

"I've got to report this to the Lords, Bruce. It's out of my hands." John kept his ring lit, ready to blast the hell out of there if need be, but Bruce didn't look like he'd heard John. He was sitting on the arm of the couch, running his fingers through Wally's hair. Wally stared determinedly at the television, his jaw set. 

John backed out of the room and went to the door. When he let it slam shut behind him and stood free of the insulated madness within, he knew that for Bruce, there would be no going back. John would never see his friend again, not the way he once was. The living corpse was more Wally than whatever that thing wearing Bruce's face was.

Forget walking. John blasted off from the porch, flying as fast as he could will himself. The manor blinked out of sight behind him, but the sense of unease chased John as he broke through the atmosphere.

Batman was as dead as the Flash. And John was the lucky bastard who got to break it to Superman.

++++++++

Bruce was hanging on by a thread. He couldn't keep a handle on Wally, not after his own foolish mistake let Wally in on just what he'd missed. The tenuous link between them, the trust, it was all gone in the space of a few minutes. Wally no longer sought Bruce out. He barely acknowledged Bruce.

The drugs didn't help.

But what choice did Bruce have? The days crawled by, the three months seeming more like the passing of a decade. When John finally showed up, and Bruce knew the confrontation was inevitable, they'd barely hit the two month marker. Wally wouldn't make it. 

Bruce couldn't afford to hesitate.

"He's gone."

"I'm aware." Wally's eyes drooped, sleep tugging at him. He held the remote clenched in his fists. He hadn't let Bruce touch it since he pulled it out of the box.

"You should sleep," Bruce said. "Don't let John get to you. He'll understand eventually."

"You keep saying that," Wally slurred. He tilted sideways, and Bruce quickly moved from the arm onto the couch proper, lending Wally his shoulder to lean on. "But it's not true, Bruce."

"Which part?" Bruce asked, humoring him.

"No one's gonna understand. Not me, not any of them. I don't even think you do."

"You're just tired, Wally." The drugs weren't helping Wally's state of mind, but at least he was calm. 

"Yeah," Wally said. "I know." 

A month. One more month. Bruce kept it going in his mind, a mantra. In one month, Wally would be safe. He could worry about the rest later. The Lords would see reason. They'd see what damage their interference would do. They _had_ to.

Bruce slipped his hand in Wally's. Wally breathed slow and even, his hand warm in Bruce's. Fingers sliding higher, Bruce felt for his pulse, the steady _thump-bump_ soothing. 

The television played on. Bruce used his free hand to pull out his phone and send Etrigan a message before tucking it away again. By the time his alarm alerted him that the sun had set and it was night, Etrigan still hadn't responded. Bruce decided not to think about that. He scooped Wally up and walked him out onto the back patio.

Wally woke up when Bruce tried to set him on the reclining chair. "Wha's hap'nin?"

"Change of scenery." Bruce put him down gently. "When you're up for it, we can go for a walk."

"M'not a dog," Wally grumbled. The length of time he'd been on the sedatives concerned Bruce. He took longer and longer to come back up. Bruce would have to start stepping Wally down and hope for the best. If he didn't react well, Bruce would look at other compounds.

"You're not."

"I'm not your pet." His voice was stronger, clearer. Bruce was glad to hear it.

"I never wanted you to be."

"Liar." Wally sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the chair. He bounced back from John's visit surprisingly well. Bruce felt through the link that Wally's blase attitude wasn't a front. He genuinely felt nothing out of the ordinary: a little anger, a little fear, all sitting on an enormous pool of sorrow. "Come on, let's get it over with."

"You need the exercise," Bruce insisted, holding out a hand, but it was all for show. They had the same conversation every day.

Wally took his hand. He very carefully never looked at Bruce, always focusing somewhere just beyond his shoulder or often not looking in his direction at all. Wally's hand felt limp in Bruce's. He didn't try to lead, but when Bruce veered toward the footpath that cut through the thicket of trees, Wally squeezed his hand. 

"Let's go back to the house."

"No, not yet," Bruce said, pulling Wally along. "You weren't the only one I needed to visit, you know."

Wally's grip went slack again. "Right," he said, resigned. "Your parents." No reaction beyond the usual. This would be the test, Bruce decided. The last time they'd been here, Wally hadn't been able to handle it. He'd subconsciously tried to release his soul from his body. If Wally could handle this, Bruce reasoned, then stepping back the sedatives would be fine.

Wally's grave remained a hole in the ground. The beautiful flowers decorating the headstone were long dead, dried and scattered across the plot. Bruce's parents' graves were immaculate by comparison, but the lack of attention these last few weeks was obvious. The grass around the headstones had sprouted up a few inches, giving the edges of the plot an unkempt frame.

Bruce stood between his parents' graves, Wally a silent presence at his side. "I barely remember them," Bruce admitted. "I remember them dying like it just happened, but everything else?" 

Another squeeze. Wally stepped closer. Sorrow, Bruce felt it strongest in the link, the anger all but gone. Bruce felt his own spirits lift. Wally was stable, more than he'd been since waking up in Bruce's arms covered in blood. 

Bruce turned and wrapped his arms around Wally, putting his forehead on Wally's shoulder. After a long pause, Wally hugged him. Bruce wondered what Wally felt through the link. Was it sadness? Satisfaction? Bruce hardly knew what he felt himself. 

"Do you miss them?" Wally asked. 

"Every day." 

"Then," Wally paused, something rippling in his mind but settling before Bruce could really understand it. "Why didn't you bring _them_ back?"

Bruce looked up. He kept his chest pressed to Wally, let the space between them stay barely a breath apart. "I'm used to living without them. They've been dead for decades, Wally. I adjusted to the loss before I ever knew there was another option."

"But you did know," Wally didn't move away, didn't flinch, "when I died? You knew another way?"

"Nothing solid. I only knew, with everything I'd seen, the idea of bringing someone back from the dead wasn't all that crazy."

Pity. It hit Bruce with all the force of Superman's fist. Wally _pitied_ him.

Bruce pushed down his automatic reaction. Shoving Wally and escaping the situation wouldn't help. Instead, he angled his face, leaning in just enough to feel the heat from Wally's skin. Enough for Wally to kiss him, if he chose.

And he did.

Wally closed the distance, pulling Bruce to meet him. The passion from the night they spent together was absent, something gentle in its place. Bruce felt along the link, prodding at the whirling mess that was Wally's mind. Complicated, that's how it felt. Too many emotions hooked into each other to pull apart any one dominant feeling. Wally drew back. His hands fisted into Bruce's shirt. "I want to go back. Let's go back to the manor."

"Wherever you want, Wally." 

++++±

The days bled together. Time lost all meaning to Wally, even after Bruce stopped drugging him. He didn't realize he'd lost two weeks until he started paying attention to Bruce's desk calendar. Bruce helpfully had the final day of Wally's imprisonment circled in red ink.

He preferred the drugs. 

At the end of this, what would happen? Wally didn't imagine Bruce would just let him loose. The Justice Lords knew about it, and that was an axe Wally was just waiting to fall. Without the speed force, he was just...a guy. Just a normal guy who knew too much. 

When the magic date rolled by, Wally knew what would change. Nothing. Bruce would mark another day off the calendar and continue cheerfully onward in their mutual downward spiral. 

This wasn't even a world he wanted to live in. That he had no choice in the matter seemed impossibly unfair.

Wally was forcing himself to eat when the knock sounded on the door. Without the haze of Bruce's sedatives, there was nothing to dull the panic this time. From Bruce, he felt irritation. The possibility of the Justice Lords dropping in was an inconvenience to Bruce. Maybe there _was_ something to the whole insanity thing.

He trailed after Bruce to the door, his heart slamming against his chest. But when the door opened, carefully angled not to expose Wally to the sun, Wally didn't recognize the man who crossed over the threshold.

"I wasn't expecting you," Bruce said. He was more than irritated now. He was angry.

"You should have been," the man said, letting Bruce close the door behind him. He held a hand out to Wally. "My name is Jason Blood," he said. "And I owe you an apology."

Bruce shoved his way between them before Wally could take Jason's hand. "You weren't invited. I'll summon--"

"Try," Blood said, voice like ice. "You'll be dead before you get the words out, and you'll take your friend here with you. I'd be doing him a favor. So go ahead, Wayne. _Try me_." Despite the tough front, Wally could see the sweat pouring down his neck, beading up at his hairline. 

"What do you want, Blood?" And there was Batman. Wally hadn't heard his voice in so long. It still signaled safety in his mind. He could tell Bruce felt it, too, from the thrill that echoed back. 

"To dissuade you from this foolish endeavor! Do you know what you've done?"

Ah, this again. Wally had long run the cycle of his own indignation. Yes, Bruce brought him back from dead. Yes, he violated the laws of nature and crossed a few serious moral boundaries. _Obviously_ Wally was not happy about it. But he couldn't keep rehashing it. Bruce's mind took a long walk off a short pier when Wally died. Arguing with him was an exercise in futility. 

"Of course I do." And they'd come full circle, back to irritation.

"And you're fine with that?" Blood frowned. He looked at Wally. Fine wasn't the word he'd use, no, but what about the situation was?

"Etrigan was very clear about the conditions," Bruce said. "I've followed them to the letter."

"Conditions?" Blood asked. "What conditions?"

Suddenly Wally wasn't feeling quite so _whatever_. "That stuff about not being in the sun," Wally said. "And, like, Bruce being within thirty feet of me."

Blood looked from Wally to Bruce. He opened his mouth, then violently flinched. He shook his head. "No, shut up! What have you done?"

"You should leave," Bruce said. His hands were clenched at his side. 

"Whatever Etrigan told you, it wasn't true. These, what did you call them? Conditions? They don't exist. They never did." Blood raked a hand through his hair. "Wayne, tell me you didn't take a demon at his word. Tell me." Bruce said nothing. Wally could feel the rage building in Bruce, a bubbling force with no clear target. "I see." Blood looked down. For a moment, Wally swore he looked ashamed. "Let me explain something to you, then, to both of you." He looked at Wally. "He's ruined you, Wayne has. But you can still save yourself."

"Blood--"

"No!" Blood shouted. He held out a hand, the tips of his fingers glowing. Bruce stopped advancing, his eyes fixed on Blood. "I won't be party to this madness! He deserves to know what you've done to him! Even if you're too much a fool to understand."

Wally took a step back. Bruce's anger was smothered by Wally's sudden spike of fear, the feeling so large it felt like it might explode out of him. "I don't understand," he said, voice sounding far away.

"That spell--it wasn't a resurrection ritual. That much should have been obvious. Four pints of blood, Wayne? You of all people should know a man couldn't survive that easily."

"Etrigan modified the ritual. I was aware that wasn't the intended purpose." Bruce didn't move, but he'd turned his attention to Wally. Wally didn't think he was even blinking.

"He didn't modify anything. All he did was warn you what was needed. How could you not wonder?" Blood asked. "What did you think it was for?"

"It didn't matter," Bruce admitted. "It brought Wally back. I didn't care about anything else."

Wally was no stranger to Bruce's fixation, but from the disgust on Blood's face, this was the first Blood had heard of it. "The ritual was designed as a punishment," Blood explained, turning back to Wally. "A sorcerer in the 1300s created it after his wife was murdered. Brutally murdered, cut to pieces. My research indicated he wanted two things: a chance to say goodbye and justice. Not for himself, but for her. And in one fell swoop, he got them both. He forced the murderer to resurrect his wife. And then, when he was satisfied with his goodbye, he gave his wife the justice she deserved."

"How?" Wally's voice barely hit the volume of a whisper.

"The ritual was meant to be temporary. When the resurrected was ready, she merely had to allow her spirit to depart. The anchor, in this case her murderer, was," he paused. "Well, for lack of a better word, rupturing the link between them obliterated him. Destroyed his soul completely. That was the ritual's purpose. It wasn't to bring back the dead. It was violent justice. And you thought you could use it?"

"Etrigan modified it," Bruce repeated. Wally couldn't tell what he felt. Wally couldn't get a handle on his own emotions. He felt at once too aware and yet very far away. He blinked rapidly.

"He didn't!" Blood's voice echoed through the manor. "Don't you understand? Etrigan is a demon! He wanted to see you suffer for the pleasure of it! He wanted to see you destroy the one you held dear because it _amused_ him. He's laughing at you, Wayne. He's laughing at both of you!"

"You're lying!" Bruce growled, but Blood was already approaching Wally and grabbing his hand. 

"The _only_ thing I expect he didn't lie about was the lunar cycles. Wally, that was your name, yes? You have to leave, let your soul depart. If you're still here after three lunar cycles you'll be trapped here. And let me be very clear. When you do die, _you won't be going back where you were_."

Wally felt the blood drain from his face. Bruce cleared the room in two steps and ripped Blood off of him. When his hand pulled free of Wally's, it left something small behind. A carpule, Wally realized. He pocketed it quickly, but Bruce was too distracted to realize it, too enraged. He slammed Blood's head against the door, did it one more time for good measure. 

"You don't touch him," Bruce growled, "you don't _ever_ touch him!" He opened the door and threw Blood out. Wally had time to see his body collapse on the walkway before the door slammed shut again.

When Bruce whirled on him, Wally's legs gave. He sank to the ground, his back to the wall, hands shaking. "Don't listen to him, Wally," Bruce pleaded. "He's wrong. I know he's wrong! You're safe here. Don't let him trick you!" He dropped to his knees, pulling Wally close. He buried his face in Wally's hair and let out a shuddering breath.

Wally didn't, _couldn't_ respond. He knew Blood was telling the truth, could feel it as certainly as he knew the sky was blue. He let Bruce hold him, rocking him on the floor, and felt the carpule in his pocket, hot like a burning lump of coal.

+++++++

Bruce oscillated between rage and terror, hovering over Wally like he was liable to disappear at any moment. Which he _was_. They both knew the score now. Wally could leave any time he wanted.

So now Bruce had to make sure he couldn't. The first time he drugged Wally after Jason Blood's disastrous visit they fought. Wally managed to land a punch but without his speed, Bruce was by far the superior fighter. He had pounds upon pounds of muscle on him, not to mention training. He felt Bruce all the time, even when he couldn't see him.

Wally managed to hide the carpule from Bruce in the box in the corner, the one with Wally's DVDs and books. It was unlabeled, a clear liquid that looked like water. GHB, Wally guessed. It would be all too easy to put it in Bruce's food or in a drink. Bruce would be out in minutes. Wally could leave. It would literally destroy Bruce, but Wally could _leave_. He couldn't remember where he'd been before Bruce yanked him back to the living world, not anymore, but the feeling of peace, of being loved--he could feel it. It called him, like strings attached to his heart, tugging him home. It would be so easy.

The carpule remained in the box, and the days continued to pass. 

After Jason Blood, when the Lords finally showed up, Wally couldn't quite remember why he'd been so afraid. What could they do? Kill him? He'd welcome it. If they made the decision for him, he'd accept their judgement with open arms. But the Lords weren't as proactive as he'd expected.

Instead, they'd put Bruce, and by extension Wally, on house arrest. They considered them a security risk. Wally wasn't even part of the discussion. Bruce yelled at them on the front porch. Wally, dosed and barely awake, heard it like sound through water. It didn't matter, he told himself. None of it mattered.

Time marched onward, the days between Wally and what he assumed was the magical equivalent of eternal damnation numbered fewer and fewer until he and Bruce finally stood on the precipice of it.

A single day. Wally tried to think. Somehow he'd lost the days without even considering a decision. And here he was, out of time.

Wally begged off dinner. He hadn't had an appetite in days. He told Bruce he just wanted to sleep, exaggerated the slurred words. He felt Bruce's certainty and fed it back to him.

When he went upstairs, he grabbed the carpule and took it into the bathroom. Bruce kept needles in the medkit under the sink. All he had to do was catch Bruce by surprise, and he was home free.

Right, surprise the Batman. That wouldn't be a problem at _all_.

Wally showered mechanically. He kept returning to Bruce's face, kept worrying at the link between them. Bruce might catch on to his plan. Bruce might find the loaded needle. 

If he succeeded, Bruce would die. Would cease to exist.

Wally didn't get dressed. He dried off and climbed into bed, hiding the needle. Then he shoved the lamp off the bedside.

The shatter and thud had the desired effect. A spike of fear from Bruce, followed by footsteps pounding up the stairs. Bruce slammed the door open and stood in the doorway, white-faced and panting.

Wally sat up and let the sheets pool around his waist, watching Bruce take his nakedness in. He held the syringe carefully out of sight. "Bruce," he said, soft.

As though hypnotized, Bruce walked to the bed. He sat down, watching Wally, unblinking. When Wally held an arm out, he curled into him. When Wally nuzzled his face, Bruce turned into it and kissed him. When Wally grabbed his arm, he didn't question it--not until the needle stuck him.

Wally felt the betrayal, the fear. He felt it wink out of existence, replaced by confusion and finally blank unconsciousness.

He lowered Bruce to the bed, putting the syringe on the bedside table. Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't move. 

"Bruce?" Wally prodded him. Nothing. He felt through the link. Bruce was well and truly out. Whatever Blood put in that, it sure as hell wasn't GHB. 

Slipping out of bed, Wally got dressed. It didn't seem right to die again naked. Was it really dying again? He hardly counted himself alive. He was just putting things right again, that was all. Bruce did it to himself. Wally was nothing but a pawn, a thing he'd fixated upon when everything else in the world slipped through his fingers. He didn't love Wally, not really.

Dressed, Wally sat back down on the bed. That was the problem, he decided. Bruce didn't love Wally.

But Wally? He'd always loved Bruce, right from the very beginning.

++++++

Bruce woke up.

That in itself was a surprise. When Wally got the drop on him, Bruce knew it was the end. He wouldn't be coming back, not from that. Not from losing Wally again.

But he _did_ wake up. The boards were gone from the bedroom windows, sunlight spilling into the room. Bruce raised his arm to shield his eyes, but he was sluggish from the drugs and nearly punched himself instead.

"You're awake."

Bruce startled violently. Wally sat in a chair by the bed. It was one of the old high-backed chairs from the sitting room downstairs. Wally must have carried it back up to the room. When Bruce groped for the link in his mind, he felt it just as strongly as before. Sorrow, anger, fear: the melody of Wally's mind. "You're here."

"Yeah." Wally didn't smile, but he did laugh. "Yeah, I'm here."

"What day is it?"

Wally reached down and grabbed something off the floor. It was Bruce's desk calendar. He dropped it on Bruce's lap and tapped on the square after the circled day. 

The day _after_.

Joy, like nothing Bruce had ever known, flared in his mind, and he hoped Wally could feel it, how happy Bruce was that Wally chose him. "You're staying. With me." He reached out a hand.

Wally didn't move. "There's nowhere else I can go," he said. "It's too late."

"Everything will be fine," Bruce said. He knew it now, knew nothing would ever be wrong again. "Jason Blood didn't know what he was talking about. Wally, you won't regret this."

Wally stared at him. Bruce understood. He felt just as overcome. But they had each other. Wally never needed to worry again.

"Come here," Bruce said. Pleaded, really. He suddenly needed Wally closer. This time, Wally didn't ignore him. He took the offered hand and let Bruce pull him onto the bed and hold him close. 

"I don't think I can live in this world, Bruce," Wally admitted into the crook of Bruce's neck. "I don't think I want to be alive. But I can't take you with me. I don't know what to do."

Sorrow, fear, anger.

Bruce's phone vibrated on the bedside table. Wally must have put it close by. Rocking Wally gently, Bruce grabbed it and looked at the message.

_Etrigan: Time to pay the piper._

He tossed the phone aside. It didn't matter. He had Wally in his arms, a permanent resident of Bruce's world. The rest would come together. His phone vibrated again. Bruce ignored it. "I'll fix it, Wally," he swore. "This world. I'll make it better for you. I said it before. Anything you want, Wally."

Wetness against his neck. Wally was crying. Bruce understood. He felt it too, that overwhelming sense of being on the verge of something wonderful.

They would welcome it together: a newer, better world.


End file.
